it's 1:16am on a sunday morning.

i'm sitting at a wooden table set for 8

in a san francisco hostel

with strong benches for seats.

the t.v. is blaring a 60's detective film

and a man is passed out on a couch not three feet from me.

is this poetry not enough?

is my life not words on a page being written out in front me?

and i love it.